Plus One
by Firestar9mm
Summary: Deep down, she'd somehow anticipated this perilous corridor of her life-wedding season. She had known that when the other girls started to worry about seating charts and color swatches and china patterns, she would feel completely out of her depth.


**Author's Introduction:**

I've actually had this story written for a really long time. It is based on true events—so if you think it's horrible, feel free to pity me; I actually had to deal with most of this. I've exhumed it from the cellar in which it has been distilling because once again, I am being forced to do a bunch of lunatic tasks like tying ribbons around little bottles of bubbles and wearing a sateen gown that looks like it ran away from the junior high prom. My boyfriend will have to listen to me bitch about all the places I'll be forced to go and all the things I'll be made to do, and he'll have to wear a purple tie to the horror event itself, so he's going to suffer too, and he deserves that even less than I do.

I hate being a bridesmaid, and I'm not going to lie about that. It's hardly the "honor" anyone makes it out to be. The bride gets to be as unreasonable and demanding as she wants to be, and you get to be furious and humiliated.

Writing is like bloodletting for me. So this is me dragging the ivory-handled cake cutter down my forearm yet again. Here comes the bridesmaid. *smirks*

This was actually done in conjunction with **Darkwood**, who can be found right here on this site. Go read her fics if you haven't already (but you really should have, because they are excellent and you probably don't need me to tell you that).

* * *

**Plus One**

A _Resident Evil _fic by Firestar9mm

* * *

_Bachelorette_s, _the things we do, girls, to our bachelorettes_.

**(Tori Amos, **_**Bachelorette**_**)**

* * *

Even before the Raccoon City outbreak, Claire Redfield had been no stranger to ballistics. From an early age Claire had been taught to respect guns, and when her father was no longer around to reinforce his teachings, her brother had readily taken up the mantle. Her father had hunted occasionally, and his line of work had required him to carry. His backup piece, a .38 Special, was still in a safe-deposit box somewhere, if she remembered correctly. Her brother's preferred method of celebrating the anniversary of their father's death was to take the gun to the range and fire it. He took pride in keeping it in working order. Their father's Winchester still lived with Chris, but Claire had learned to shoot that when she was young, although she hadn't the heart to accompany her father and brother on hunting trips. The Beretta shotgun she held when she felt uneasy at home and wanted to "let the dog out" (which meant she sat facing the door or window in question with the shotgun in her lap) had been a gift from Chris, and they'd spent a whole weekend getting her comfortable with it, although Raccoon City had been good practice for that.

But Claire had to admit that her boyfriend had the best toys. Most girls would probably find a date at the gun range odd, but Claire loved Leon for pulling the necessary strings to familiarize her with a wider range of weaponry. She'd especially enjoyed the day when he'd let her work with the SOCOM-modified M4A1 carbine, although she'd spent a lot of the day confused by his unreadable expression. She'd thought she wasn't performing well with the heavier barrel, although she'd had plenty of practice toting a grenade launcher back in Raccoon and was sure she'd done fine with the shorter M203. She'd naively mistaken his smoldering eyes and tense expression for disapproval, until he'd hurried her back to the car, opening the door for her more in the interest of speed than politeness. The pieces had fallen together when she'd noticed the speedometer needle fluttering at an emergency speed and glanced down to see his foot pressing down harder and harder on the accelerator. She knew what that meant. When they'd reached the apartment (in record time, she noted happily), she'd purposely hung about in the entryway, knowing he'd scoop her up in his arms and carry her to the bedroom in his impatience. Which he had, all the while breathing compliments into her ear about how she'd looked with that gun that had nothing to do with how she'd fired it, how he wished they'd brought it with them so he could see her with it now, wearing something far more scandalous than the clothes he was already tearing off her.

Yeah, she appreciated that.

But other than the carnal rewards of weapons training, she appreciated the lessons even more because she knew Leon hated the idea of her being in the line of fire, but had accepted it as a necessary evil and wanted her to be as prepared as possible to protect herself.

When the men in her life weren't around to accompany her to the range, Claire shot under the experienced eye of Terrence Longchamp, whose service in the Gulf War had cost him a leg. He'd returned to the states with an honorable discharge, long years of physical therapy ahead of him, and a plan to run a shooting range that would eventually earn him the nickname "Terry Guns". If the loss of his leg ever bothered him, it never showed on his face, and his aim was more accurate than the aim of some soldiers Claire knew who still had all their extremities. After she had become more of a fixture at the range, Claire had gotten brave enough to ask Terry if it had been difficult to relearn to shoot after his injury. Without batting an eye, he'd told her yes and explained in detail about redistribution of weight, something that he felt people took for granted every day.

What Terry never told anyone was _how_ he'd lost his leg—the story changed every time. He told Claire that he'd lost it stepping on a land mine, but she'd overheard him tell another patron that he'd broken it after a rappelling accident and they'd had to amputate. Every story came with a smile, and Claire had a feeling that Terry would be entirely comfortable discussing his injury with others, if messing with them hadn't been way more fun.

This morning, Claire was firing with Terry because she was up for re-certification. In her own colorful opinion, Claire considered re-certification similar to a pap smear—it didn't have to happen very often, but when it did happen it was as uncomfortable and unpleasant as it was necessary. She hadn't failed one yet, a fact she attributed to the strict severity of her approach.

After her return from Antarctica, Claire had briefly considered trying her best to lock away all the unpleasant memories. She had no regrets about the course of action that had brought her to Leon and reunited her with her brother, but there were plenty of things that haunted her nightmares, jolting her awake with the screaming horrors.

It wasn't until years later, on one not-so-very-special day when she'd been sitting up expectantly waiting for Leon to come home striped with battle scars, that her gaze had wandered over the gauze and disinfectant and medical tape she had ready and she'd realized how foolish that idea really was. Once the wounds had been bandaged and sealed with kisses, long after Leon had fallen asleep curled around her with his face buried in her hair, Claire lay awake counting memories. Listening to the rhythm of his breath, stroking her fingertips idly down the arms that clutched her to him, she had realized with startling clarity that she _needed_ to remember some of it. Good or bad, it was important, and for her own safety—for their shared future—some of the blood needed to stay fresh.

Re-certification was one of those instances where the open wounds came in handy. Rather than trying to suppress them, Claire threw open the chained doors in her mind and let the blood and gore flood her, touching everything except the shining memory of her first glimpse of Leon Kennedy, extending a hand to her in a diner doorway.

The way more religious people might fast and pray in the days before an important ritual, Claire spent every available second before a re-certification trying to make her gun an extension of her arm and remembering how every skill counted in Raccoon City, in Rockfort, in Antarctica, in Harvardville. Leon was her partner in every way imaginable, and there would always be times when his life depended on her. She would not fail him.

So she practiced, with him and on her own, whenever she could. This particular morning she held her beloved Browning Hi-Power in a teacup grip and hissed in a breath every time she fired, not to keep the pistol steady but because she'd made the crucial mistake of wearing a low-cut scoop-necked blouse to the range. Every shot caused a burning hot shell casing to eject from the pistol, right into her cleavage. Already there were painful-looking red blotches marring her exposed skin.

The prosthetic leg eliminated any chance Terry had at the element of surprise. Despite her ear protection, Claire was aware of his approach and lowered her weapon.

"Does your boyfriend know you're wearing that to the range?" Terry asked cheekily, draping one of his customary flannel shirts over her shoulders, leaving him in a sleeveless shirt that displayed a tattoo he'd gotten in the service and arms that he still worked hard to maintain.

"Yes, and you don't hear him complaining," Claire chastised playfully as she accepted the shirt, knowing there were at least two more in Terry's office that he could replace it with. Safely buttoned up, she emptied her magazine and waited as the track whirred, bringing her target up for inspection.

Terry whistled. "You're getting better. I wonder how you'd do if we put a picture of someone you hated up here?"

Claire smiled angelically. "Terry Guns, do I look like the sort of girl who hates people?" she asked, even as a roulette of people she would be happy to pop a cap in spun through her mind. She was ashamed to realize it seemed to heavily favor women Leon had once dated, with a sprinkling of Umbrella and Tri-Cell operatives thrown in for flavor.

Terry's smile was devilish, and his tousled hair and neat goatee only added to the general look of deviousness. "Come on, everybody hates someone. Who's a good candidate?"

This time Claire's smile was more genuine, warm with confidence. "No one who's an active threat, thank goodness." That was true. Claire had either personally dispatched or had front-row seats to the ass-kicking of any enemy general or drooling monstrosity who'd given her a run for her money, and her pulse still got embarrassingly erratic with the knowledge that Leon was most decidedly hers. "But stay tuned, Terry-I could come up with someone at any time."

Claire didn't know how right she was.

* * *

One of Claire's favorite inventions was the capability to assign all her contacts personalized cell phone rings. It was a perfect early-warning system.

As she was calling her goodbyes to Terry and resurfacing from the range into the early morning sunlight, the phone trumpeted the unmistakable opening bars of the wedding march. This didn't immediately tell her who was calling, but it did narrow down the suspects considerably so Claire had plenty of time to get her Irish up before answering the phone.

"Go for Redfield," she said, even though she knew this wasn't a work call.

"_Where are you?" _the caller demanded, forgoing a greeting entirely. "_Half of us are already here and you're supposed to be here at ten_."

Claire glanced at her watch, which was a no-nonsense sport model that could report her pulse and time a run. She'd bought it from a catalog after she'd lost two digital watches and one nicer analog watch with a mother-of-pearl face to exposure to the elements or mucking around in sewer systems on various assignments. The watch's ad copy had claimed it was indestructible, and**, **short of setting it on fire, Claire's last few ops had certainly put it through its paces. Every time she looked at the digital face, she smiled because Leon had hinted more than once that he'd have liked to buy her a dress watch, but didn't because she'd never wear it. He was fond of telling her that his biggest complaint about her was how difficult she was to spoil.

"_Hey. Hey! Claire! I asked you a question!"_

"It's only nine-fifteen," Claire said, jerked back to the present by the woman's voice, which was gradually thinning as she grew more flustered. "You said ten. I'll be there for ten," she said mildly.

"_When we said ten we thought it was obvious that you ought to be here for nine-thirty_," the woman hissed.

"And it's only nine-fifteen," Claire said slowly and evenly, as though she were dealing with a ledge jumper. "I'm just leaving an appointment now and—"

"_We want everything to go smoothly for Tara_," the woman spat. "_Get over here quick!" _Without saying goodbye, she hung up. Claire was willing to ignore the rudeness in exchange for silence. She had a feeling that Tara's comfort was actually the last thing on anyone's mind.

Claire sighed. Growing up, she'd always been one of the boys. Part of that had been growing up without a mother, part of it had been Chris's influence and friends, and part of it was the fact that she had always preferred baseballs to baubles, leather to lace, motorcycles to manicures. Deep down, she'd somehow anticipated this perilous corridor of her life-wedding season. She had known that when the other girls started to worry about seating charts and color swatches and china patterns, she would feel completely out of her depth.

In high school, Claire had been one of only two girls who'd opted out of home economics in favor of taking metal shop. The other had been Tara McTiernan. The two girls had bonded-well, they'd bonded the jewelry they'd made in class, anyway-and their low-maintenance friendship had survived time, distance, and a brief rough period during which Tara had been very romantically interested in a rather oblivious Chris.

The current fire of Tara's heart hadn't been oblivious to her advances at all-after a whirlwind romance that had begun, of all places, on the internet, Tara had been all too happy to open her heart, her home and a few other things to a man named Nick, whom Claire hadn't met but had heard enough about on the occasional phone call. Claire thought any man would consider himself lucky to land Tara—she was stylish, attractive and had done well enough for herself clerking for the appellate court—and had been honest in her effusive congratulations right up until the knockout punch— "_—and I was wondering...would you be a bridesmaid?"_

A set of kitchen knives had fallen through Claire's throat at the mere thought of having to dress up like a frosted cupcake and canter down the aisle to celebrate something she didn't believe, which was that overblown declarations of love were great. She had been hoping simply to write Tara and Nick a check and station herself at the bar during the reception. But Tara _was_ a friend, one of the few Claire still had from life before Raccoon City, which seemed like a distant phantasm. Subsequently, she found herself unable to find a way to politely decline the "honor" being bestowed on her. Now she was apparently late to be early for the fitting at the bridal shop.

As Claire swung a leg over her motorcycle and jammed her ponytail into her helmet, she realized she was gritting her teeth behind the full-face shield. Tara was a friend, but her bridal party was another story, and Claire was not looking forward to having to deal with them. Tara's contact had been sporadic due to the hassle of wedding plans, but from what little Claire had heard, she was one of only two people in the wedding party not related by blood, marriage or similar to either the bride or the groom. Early on, Tara had expressed an interest in keeping the bridal party small, which had apparently resulted in the groom's four sisters throwing simultaneous hissy fits and demanding they be included in the ceremony. Claire would happily have given up her place to any of them in favor of wearing what she wanted and not having to do lunatic things like get fitted for gowns on a Saturday morning or help plan a bachelorette party, but Tara wouldn't hear of anyone bailing out and just expanded the bridal party to include everyone.

"Everyone" included the groom's four sisters, two nieces, two cousins, one nephew and four or five of his friends, who were conveniently dating or married to most of the bridesmaids. Claire's teeth were still grinding over the fact that there seemed to be very little of Tara in the wedding so far—she and one other girl they'd attended high school with were the only people who appeared to have been Tara's choices other than the maid of honor, Tara's older sister. It was also unhelpful that Claire was not too overly fond of either Tara's sister or their mutual friend. As the bike moved smoothly down the main drag that housed the bridal shop, Claire steeled herself and reminded herself that she was doing this for Tara.

The shop was called Under the Veil. That was so cute Claire felt like she needed an insulin shot. Straightening her black spandex shirt, she smoothed her bangs, retied her ponytail so it would hang right and lifted her chin, pushing the glass door open confidently.

The show of bravado was wasted on bridesmaid Giselle, who speared Claire with a look, hands on her hips. "It's about time you got here," she snapped. She had been the impatient caller on the line earlier.

Claire didn't bother consulting her watch. "It's five to ten," she responded smoothly. "Am I the last?"

While Claire didn't get along with the majority of the bridal party, the biggest thorn in her side was easily tall, freckled Giselle, the eldest sister of the groom. Claire wasn't sure why the other redhead didn't like her, but at least it was mutual, and after weeks of Giselle taking potshots at her and encouraging the other bridesmaids to join in, she was no longer interested in even faking civility with her. Claire suspected that it offended some deep part of Giselle that she wasn't "family", but she couldn't be certain. It certainly offended Claire that Giselle was insufferably bossy and had taken it upon herself to be the wedding Nazi, especially since she was not the maid of honor, and therefore didn't technically outrank any of the other bridesmaids.

Claire smiled to herself thinking that she'd have to tell Leon that. It would amuse him that she was getting so conditioned to think in military terms.

Once again she forced her attention back to the present, realizing that Giselle had abruptly lost interest in berating her and was now on a cell phone hissing at someone else, presumably one of the latecomers. Claire spotted Tara perched on an ivory-colored love seat and headed towards her, hoping this wouldn't take all morning.

Tara was a hug-and-kiss type of girl, something Claire wasn't overly fond of but tolerated good-naturedly, accepting the fact that she'd have to deal with having a circle of peach lip gloss on her cheek. "There you are," Tara said, but not unkindly, shaking her dark hair away from her face. A futile effort—Tara had been blessed with glossy, straight hair, and no matter how many times she flicked her slinky bob out of her face, it fell again to frame her features. "Glad you could make it. Giselle's on the warpath."

"I noticed," Claire remarked dryly, glancing back at the cluster of bridesmaids near the front counter. "Should someone inform her that she is _not,_ in fact, the bride?"

Tara laughed and Claire was glad she'd allowed herself room to snark. In her opinion, Tara was allowing herself to be bullied by the groom's family, but at least she seemed to be taking it rather well. Not that this was so out of character; Tara was one of those rare girls who people assumed couldn't possibly be as nice as she seemed. But Claire knew from years of sharing test answers, lunch tables and a prom limousine that Tara really was that nice. Unfortunately, this had made her a bit of a pushover in high school, but Claire had quickly taken up the role of enforcer—after a few scuffles in P.E. class and one cafeteria brawl, no one had picked on Tara when Claire was around to hear it.

Claire realized with a sinking feeling that today might bear a little _too_ much of a resemblance to high school.

Even as the unpleasant thought crossed her mind, she noticed a few of the other bridesmaids casting glances at the sofa, and realized suddenly what they were whispering about-the scoop-necked blouse that had been such a problem at the gun range also had a cutout back, displaying a diamond of pale skin from the nape of her neck and stopping just above the clasp of her bra. Claire straightened automatically, the better to show it off. She knew that despite the morning's incident with the shell casings, the shirt was not indecent, but it didn't surprise her that the bridesmaids, whose tastes ran more to and Ann Taylor, weren't fans of her outfit. They had already made it clear on more than one occasion that they did not like her clothes—it hadn't been too long ago that someone had had a rude comment about the black ruched cocktail dress she'd worn to the engagement party. No matter what errand they were running, apparently Claire was not dressed for it. She wondered if it would make them happier if she just started going everywhere in a floor-length Christian Dior ball gown.

At least during the actual wedding, they'd all be wearing the same thing. It would be one less thing for them to give her a hard time about. Still, she wasn't sorry she'd worn a leather choker to the fitting. In fact, given the fact that they were so obviously gossiping about her outfit, she was wishing she'd worn a spiked dog collar or something a little more extreme.

"Okay, everyone!" Willowy blonde Cyndi, another sister of the groom, was an elementary school teacher, if Claire remembered correctly. In her opinion, the problem with schoolteachers (and by extension, mothers) was that they spent too much time around children and subsequently lost their ability to relate to adults. Cyndi was now trying to round the entire bridal party up at the front counter so they could get the fitting started, but she sounded like she'd lapse into baby-talk at any second and start passing around tiny cartons of milk. Still, for lack of a better idea, Claire followed Tara to the counter and waited for everyone to halt their individual conversations and realize it was time to get the show on the road.

Luckily for everyone involved, Tara had selected the dresses she wanted everyone to wear well in advance. Claire breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the strapless satin gown, realizing that the worst part was going to be having to wear crinolines under the skirt. She'd woken up for weeks in cold sweats envisioning elbow gloves, uncomfortable shoes, strange unattached sleeves, hoop skirts and bizarre hats with all manner of embellishments. It had become so frequent that Leon no longer even fully woke up to make sure there wasn't an intruder. He simply turned in her general direction, petted her idly and yawned something like, "Was it ostrich feathers this time?" or "Platform jellies again?" before curling comfortingly around her and falling asleep again.

Normally, Claire would never have questioned Tara's taste, but there was something about having a ring on their finger that made too many women go completely mad. While there was still a chance that her normally sweet friend could transform without warning into a Bridezilla, not hating the dress was a big weight off Claire's mind. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to look good for her plus-one, because he wouldn't be above teasing her if she ended up looking like a cupcake.

Still, they had to _get_ the dresses first.

Right from the beginning, it was very bad. The entire group was led to the back of the boutique where the dressing rooms were, and each woman was given a sample dress in her size to try on. There was only one sample dress of the style Tara had chosen in Claire's size, size eight, and it was a loud, Hi-C orange color. It wasn't flattering, and while it fit in the bosom it was too loose elsewhere. Technically, Claire fell between a six and an eight, but there was nothing for it except to take the larger size and alter it. She was annoyed at inevitably having to pay more than the dress already cost to get it altered to fit her, but she knew that until the bridal shops carried dresses in the necessary fictional size seven, she was out of luck. In the small fitting room, she frowned at her reflection and consoled herself by remembering that Tara would not force everyone to wear orange.

Since there were so many bridesmaids, probability dictated that there would be a wide range of body types. Claire had been under the impression that part of being a bridesmaid was that you just sucked it up and wore whatever the bride wanted you to wear, but the complaints started almost immediately. She cracked the door of her fitting room stall open just enough to peek out as at least three simultaneous cries of "I can't wear this!" rang out from the rooms around her.

"It's not working, Ange," someone responded to the complaint from beyond Claire's line of sight.

"What are you talking about? It's _fine_," someone snarled, and the groom's second-eldest sister, who Claire had privately dubbed "Amazon Angela", sashayed past Claire's fitting room, hips swinging like the pendulum on the grandfather clock in Claire and Leon's apartment. Angela was a beauty, but she was the proverbial brick house—tall, curvy, with the shoulders of a crew sculler. She was wearing the simply-cut dress well, given the givens, except that it was very obviously a size too small. Claire could tell she was uncomfortable by how tensely she was holding her shoulders, as if she couldn't breathe.

"Why don't you just let me get you a size up?" Brenda, the groom's mother purred soothingly, and Claire flinched reflexively. The groom's mother was the most vocal about her dislike of Claire's wardrobe, having asked Claire at Tara's bridal shower why she didn't have anything nice and bright to put on, that any of the other bridesmaids would have been happy to lend her something appropriate. Claire had bristled at the thought that her black halter-backed dress and had not been "appropriate" when the most daring thing about it had been the dip of the sweetheart neckline, and she was pretty sure the other bridesmaids would not have been eager to twist their wrists to let her see their watches if she'd asked the time, let alone lend her clothing. Not that she would have fit in it anyway-right now, the groom's sisters seemed to have trouble fitting into their _own _clothing.

"I don't _need_ a size up," hissed Angela, whirling on her mother. "I'm the same size as Cyndi."

"It fits!" At the end of the narrow corridor of fitting rooms, Claire could see a reflection of Cyndi in the mirror, spinning so the gathers of the dress opened like a flower. Cyndi's sample was ice blue, which brought out her vanilla-blonde hair, and Claire frowned again at the Kool-Aid color of her own sample, gripping the satin in one hand.

Brenda clapped hands dripping with rings as if Cyndi had just won a small-town pageant. "You look beautiful, Cyn. Doesn't that fit her perfectly?"

"Mine fits too," rehissed Angela, tugging at the dress she was wearing, which was candy apple red. A futile effort-the satin had absolutely no give. "See? It fits me perfectly."

It didn't. Angela looked like the dress would split if she took a sip of water, but Claire hoped that Brenda would just drop it. Who cared if Angela spent the entire wedding holding her breath? She'd been enough of a pain in the ass already—they'd had to reschedule the first fitting because Angela had woken up sick, and that day would have been far more convenient for Claire than this one, with a re-certification hanging over her head.

"I'm the same size as Cyndi. I've _always _been the same size as Cyndi," Angela insisted.

"All right, honey, if you really don't want to try a bigger size, then take this one. I'm just worried you won't be able to eat anything. Did you try sitting down in it?" Brenda asked just as another bridesmaid bellowed "_Mom_!" from elsewhere in the corridor of fitting rooms.

Angela's eyes blazed with new anger as Brenda scurried away, presumably to assist another bridesmaid. "I'm not taking anything _bigger _than a _six_," she hissed very hissily, as though it were a dirty word. Claire, still hiding behind her fitting room door in her own size eight dress, felt her lips lift in a silent snarl.

"Besides," Angela mumbled, the fight seeming to have gone out of her, "I probably won't be eating much anyway."

The pieces fell together for Claire with the sort of clarity you usually have to meditate to have. Angela was having trouble fitting into the size six because she _was_ getting bigger than Cyndi, and the sickness she'd had to cancel the earlier fitting for had been the _morning_ kind. She suppressed a snicker, but not well enough that Angela's head didn't snap up and catch Claire peeking out from behind the fitting room door.

"What are _you_ looking at?" she demanded, her face flooding with a blush as she tried to adjust her posture so the dress looked less like a sausage casing.

Claire would have let it go if not for the "bigger than a six" comment, so she let the fitting room door fall open all the way and smirked at the other woman. "Hi, Angela. When's it due?"

Angela cast a panicked glance down the corridor, then turned bewildered eyes to Claire. It looked for a moment that she might ask how Claire had figured her out, but her expression snapped back into anger. "_Shhhh_. No one knows yet."

"Relax," Claire said. "Your business is your business. I won't tell anyone." There, that was far more polite than saying _I really don't give a good god damn._

"You'd better not," Angela said forcefully, but as she whirled and stalked down the corridor, her face was visibly relieved. Claire wondered why she hadn't just denied it, and then wondered if "no one" included Angela's husband, a sunglassed male-model type with tattoos chasing the swells of his muscular arms. Claire had never seen him when his hair wasn't gelled into a crop of spikes and he hadn't been posing languidly in a doorway as though nothing could get between him and his Calvins.

Whatever. She'd meant what she'd said about it not being her business. If Angela didn't want to tell anyone she was pregnant, that was up to her. But she was going to have a hard time making it through an entire wedding in a dress that was a size too small.

Well, pride goeth before ruination, and a haughty spirit before a fall, Claire thought idly, and decided she'd better show Tara how the eight looked on her. As far as she knew, she was the only one taking that size.

The girl who had shouted for her mother was the youngest of the groom's sisters, as well as the heaviest. Like Angela, Brooke had a beautiful face but more curves than a roller coaster, and she was constantly fighting her weight. Claire felt a little sorry for her; while her face was easily the loveliest of all the groom's sisters', it had to have been difficult to deal with a group of women who were constantly competing over who could be the thinnest.

Right now, Brooke was ensconced in a fitting room, cheeks pink with stress, her chestnut barrel curls shivering as she whispered urgently to her mother. "Mom, _no_. I don't want to look for prom dresses while we're here. This is bad enough as it is."

Brenda seemed oblivious to both the fact that the door to the fitting room was ajar and that her daughter would have preferred to keep quiet. "Don't be silly, Brooke! We may as well look for something while we're here and kill two birds with one stone. Prom's coming up, you know!"

Claire could think of a few birds she wanted to kill, regardless of how many stones it would take. She felt annoyed that Brenda was treating a dress fitting for Tara's wedding as an efficient way to also get Brooke a prom dress. But over the past few weeks, it had become rather apparent that the groom's family thought that not just the wedding but the entire world ought to revolve around them, so she told herself it shouldn't come as a surprise.

Where _was_ Tara, anyway? She wanted to get out of this stupid orange gown.

Gathering the satin up in her hands to keep it safe from her combat boots, Claire wandered away from the fitting rooms in search of Tara, only to be shepherded back down the corridor by a weeping Giselle. The redhead was pinwheeling one hand as she hurried along, tripping over a brown sample dress that was far too big for her, and she had an indiscriminate gray something in her other hand. All of this combined made it impossible for Claire to get past her, and it was obvious she wasn't going to move aside to give Claire any room. Rolling her eyes, Claire backtracked until Giselle hooked a sharp left into Brooke's fitting room.

"This is awful, awful!" Giselle burst out. Claire didn't really care what was so awful, but before she had a chance to continue down the hall, both Giselle and Brenda came back out of the fitting room, blocking the way entirely, so it looked like she'd have to hear about it whether she wanted to or not.

"Giselle, it's going to be fine!" Brenda soothed, and Claire wondered if she ever actually listened to what her daughters were crying about, or if she just spouted formless comfort as a reflex action.

Giselle's carroty curls appeared to be expanding along with her rage; her freckles disappeared as her face reddened to match them. "I'm going to look like an ocean liner," was the verdict. "I can't go down the aisle in this. It's so unfair. It's _so_ un_fair_," she howled.

"Let me see. Try it on with the padding. Let's take another look," Brenda said calmly, and Claire realized that the puffy gray something that Giselle was holding was a stomach pad-the bridal shop must have kept it on hand for women who were pregnant and planning to show by their events. Which Giselle was, Claire remembered—she'd made a big show of not drinking any alcohol at Tara's bridal shower, refusing drinks even when she wasn't offered any. Finally, another guest had had pity on her and graced her fishing expedition with a polite question of why she wasn't drinking, and that was all the opening Giselle had needed to announce to the group at large that she was pregnant. She'd been loud enough about it to take the attention away from Tara and happy enough about it to be irritating.

She didn't look happy now, though. Her face was puffy and pink from crying, and her nostrils were flaring as though any minute she'd start breathing fire. Claire didn't see what the big deal was-the wedding was soon enough that she probably wouldn't be showing much more than she was now, which wasn't much. A little bit of tummy was visible beneath the unfastened dress, but Giselle was one of those annoying women who could have been eight months along and still looked delicate.

"I'm going to look so fat," she wailed. "This is horrible."

Despite the waterworks, Claire felt no sympathy. She was itching to remind Giselle that it was _not_ her wedding and that it wasn't fair of her to keep carrying on because it was diverting attention from the _bride_, but since Tara, the bride herself, had agreed to this, she bit her tongue. Not for the first time. Claire couldn't understand why the other redhead was trying so hard to be the center of attention, partly because she herself felt like bolting, but mostly because Giselle was _already_ married. She'd had her turn.

Looking back, Claire would realize it was spite, and nothing else, that prompted her suggestion.

"You know, Giselle, if you're really that worried about it, maybe you shouldn't walk? No one's going to hold it against you."

Giselle's eyes blazed as her head snapped up and she stopped fiddling with the stomach pad. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Claire? I'm walking. I'm part of this family and I have just as much right to be there as _anyone else_." She emphasized the "anyone else" part enough that she may as well have been saying "you, Claire Redfield".

Shaking her head, Claire said, "Just a suggestion," and squeezed past to escape down the corridor. She gulped in a lungful of air as though she'd just fled an underground cave; even the larger open area where the shoes were displayed felt great after the narrow fitting rooms.

Cyndi and Angela seemed to have put aside their differences long enough to agree on shoes. "These are perfect!" Angela exclaimed, pointing one foot at a salesgirl to display the shoe she'd chosen. "And we won't have to dye them to match."

They _couldn't_ dye them to match, Claire realized, because there was nothing to dye. Angela and Cyndi were parading around in what looked like white flip-flops with a thick, clear vinyl toe strap. Insult to injury, there was a tiny white vinyl bow affixed to the toe strap. They were not wedding shoes, unless the wedding was being held at a water park.

"Get these," Cyndi instructed Claire, having seen her exit the fitting rooms. "We're all getting them. They're so comfortable."

Claire tried as hard as she could not to wrinkle her nose. "Flip flops? I don't know."

It was the wrong thing to say; the two sisters regarded her dangerously, like twin asps. "What?" Angela asked. "Don't you want comfortable shoes? What's wrong with them?"

There were no answers to that question which didn't involve references to trailer parks and Sterno cans. Trapped, Claire forced a smile. "It's just that I'll have to alter the dress more so it doesn't drag on the ground," she tried lamely, then added with happy inspiration, "Besides, there aren't a lot of occasions in my life where I get to dress up. It could be fun to wear a pair of fancy shoes for a change instead of these." She winsomely gathered her skirts and pointed her toe to display her combat boots. "I don't think my boyfriend's ever even seen me in heels!" she laughed. That wasn't strictly true, but it was a rare enough occasion that Leon made it a point to comment when she dressed up. She _was_ sort of looking forward to having him see her in something more formal than a denim miniskirt.

The sisters didn't look impressed with her deflection. "Whatever. You're crazy, and your feet are going to hurt," Cyndi said dismissively, while Angela had gotten stuck on a different part of the sentence: "Boyfriend?"

Claire was saved from having to explain about Leon by the arrival of Brenda, who stopped and looked her over as if only just realizing she was in the store. "Claire, you look beautiful!" she gushed, taking Claire's wrists and forcing them down to her sides from their crossed position. "Doesn't she look lovely, girls?"

Cyndi and Angela exchanged glances, but Brenda didn't seem to mind their lack of a response; she continued cheerfully, seemingly unaware of how awkwardly she was pinning Claire by the hold on her wrists. "So nice to see you in something bright and happy for a change," Brenda said. "This color is such a perfect color for you."

Claire felt weary. "I look like I've been dipped in Tang," she argued. "It's just a sample." A few feet away, Brooke shuffled out of the fitting rooms in her kelly green sample, exclaiming, "Cool! Flip flops! I want these!"

Both Cyndi and Angela swiveled their gazes to Claire like toys with their heads on sticks, waiting to see what she'd do.

A strange expression had crossed Brenda's face. "What smells like fireworks?" she asked, just as Brooke gestured to Claire's chest, saying, "_Ew_! What happened to _you_?"

Claire glanced down and realized that the red blotches from the hot shell casings were far more visible in the strapless dress. "Oh. I just came from the range—I have a recertification this month. It's nothing, just a few contact burns from the shell casings. What you're smelling is the cordite from shooting this morning," she said, as though she were giving a briefing at TerraSave. "Gunpowder," she added when she received blank stares.

The result of this explanation was that Brenda released her as though it burned to touch her, and everyone took a few steps back. Claire almost snorted, wishing she'd thought to try that sooner.

"Do you work for the FBI?" Brooke asked, but was immediately hushed by Brenda as if _FBI_ was a dirty word.

Completely over the entire situation, Claire turned to quickly scan the shoe selection. Picking up a strappy satin sandal with a chunky heel, she assumed it would be the easiest to walk and dance in due to the stability the heavy heel would give it and held it out to the nearest salesgirl. "Can these be dyed to match?" At the salesgirl's nod, she added, "Then put me down for a pair. Great. Done."

The salesgirl scribbled something down on her clipboard. "I just need to know what color the dresses are going to be so we can dye the shoes to match."

Claire turned to the other bridesmaids, each in a different color dress, who both regarded her with blank stares. Except for Brooke, who took pity on her and shrugged. Claire shook her head. Not bothering to repeat the question of Tara's whereabouts, Claire simply gathered the skirt of the orange dress in her hands and headed back towards the fitting rooms.

Finding Tara was easier than she'd anticipated—the sound of sobbing greeted her like an audio aid as soon as she got back to the narrow corridor. Someone was speaking quietly but firmly beneath the racket, and Claire followed the sound right to the fitting room at the very end of the corridor, where the maid of honor's soothing speech was being ignored.

"Tara," the maid of honor was saying, leaning heavily against a the door of a fitting room which presumably contained the bride-to-be. "Ta. Come on."

Claire had known Tara's sister Josie for as long as she'd known Tara, which meant she'd had front-row seats to some of Josie's more outrageous stunts throughout high school, culminating in a bizarre marriage to the premiere deadbeat of the town they'd grown up in. Claire could tolerate Josie but hated Gene, who had always leered at her and Tara when they'd walked past the convenience store where he hung out. Claire had always considered his crew-cut, freckled appearance unremarkable, but Gene was under the impression that he'd been put on Earth as a gift to the female population, and he pursued anything wearing a skirt with the dogged persistence of the truly delusional. Although he was much older, he'd made more than a few inappropriate comments to a teenage Claire when he'd managed to catch her alone, and while she hadn't told Chris about it for fear he would stop letting her go places by herself, it had upset her enough to make her avoid the convenience store for a couple of months.

Thinking about that now made Claire hope Gene wasn't in the wedding—he still made her skin crawl—but with Josie as the maid of honor, it was unlikely. Although she had a feeling it wasn't going to stop either the creep or his dissatisfied wife from prowling the reception.

Right now, Josie was in her own sample dress, a Victorian lilac color that made her golden blonde hair stand out, but the cut didn't work well with her top-heavy figure, and she wore it badly. Josie had been a gymnast until puberty had left her with an incredibly generous bosom, wide hips and incongruously slender legs. Having her own problems with finding the fictional size seven (or in Josie's case, eleven), Claire was hesitant to hold how bad the dress looked against Josie. Sidling up to the fitting room, Claire mouthed _what's wrong_? to Josie.

Josie shook her head and motioned to the closed fitting room door. "What's up, Claire?"

"I need to know what color to dye my sandals," Claire said. "And I think they're pretty eager for us to get our order in." Granted, the salesgirl hadn't come right out and _said_ that, but damn it, Claire wanted to go home. Or anywhere that was not a bridal shop.

Josie tugged on the bodice of her dress. "Well, I'm having trouble keeping the girls in here, so we may need a few minutes."

Tara suddenly thrust open the door to the fitting room, her face red and swollen from crying. "I'm sorry! I _said_ we could get another dress, but everyone got upset!"

She collapsed back into tears and Claire couldn't get anything else out of her, but Josie was nice enough to fill Claire in between trying to comfort Tara. It was pretty obvious to everyone that the strapless dress wasn't working on busty Josie, but when Tara, genuinely wanting to be fair to everyone, had offered to select a different dress altogether for the bridesmaids it hadn't gone over well. Naturally the groom's sisters, excepting Brooke, were all tall, thin, whippet-chested women who disappeared when they turned sideways and never wore anything but leggings and pegged jeans. They refused to wear any other dresses, saying they were unflattering. Claire didn't want to point out that the current dress was equally unflattering on Josie and not everyone had the legs of a baby giraffe and the chest of a greyhound, but she wasn't surprised that the groom's sisters didn't care about anyone's comfort but their own and were willing to leave not just Josie but Brooke out in the cold just so they could flaunt how thin they looked in A-line dresses.

"Tara," Claire tried to interject gently, "it's _your_ wedding and you should do exactly and only what _you_ want. Besides, Josie is the maid of honor. What difference does it make if her dress doesn't look like the others?"

Both of the McTiernan sisters looked up, as if Claire had just presented them with the key to the kingdom. Tara sniffled and looked at Josie, who smiled, ruffling her younger sister's hair. "That's a great idea. See, Ta? What about the halter-backed dress? You liked that one."

Claire felt relieved that she could at least be helpful, but Tara's smile only lasted a minute. "What about the color?" she asked worriedly.

"What about it?" Claire asked as Josie rolled her eyes.

"I just want everyone to be happy," Tara continued, not answering Claire's question. "I don't want to make everyone do something they won't like!"

"The girls are arguing about the color of the dresses," Josie translated to Claire as she patted Tara's shoulder. "They want the ice blue because they think it'll look better on them."

Claire had had enough. She was done kowtowing to Giselle the wedding bulldozer and her flotilla of bridesmaids from hell. She was not about to let Tara get bullied any more now than she would have in high school. "Who cares _what_ they want?" she said in exasperation. "Tara, this is _your_ wedding. _You_ are the bride. That means we do what _you_ want so _you_ will be happy. If you want us to wear flower print dresses and daisies on our heads, then damn it, we will wear daisies on our heads and smile about it. If you want, I'll go tell them we're all wearing _this_ color whether they like it or not. _That'll_ scare some shame into them." She gripped handfuls of her skirt to emphasize the awful orange dress. "_You've_ got the veil on now, Ta," she added. "Use it."

Josie gave Claire an appreciative smile, and Tara wiped her face, looking like she was steeling herself. She nodded at Claire.

"What color do you want the dresses to be?" Claire asked.

Tara sniffed and closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she looked almost as composed as she had when Claire had come into the store. "Red," she said firmly. "I like the red the best, and I think it'll look good on everyone."

Claire nodded. "Okay. That's it, then. We'll wear it. And Josie can have a different dress because she's the maid of honor and her dress should be a little more special anyway." Her voice softening a bit, she added to Tara, "And everything will be fine, okay?"

Tara smiled and nodded, her face still wet but happier.

"I'll go get the salesgirl," Claire said to Josie, "and you go get that halter-backed sample to try on."

Josie nodded, and Claire could hear her reassuring Tara as she walked back out into the store to look for a clerk. Finding one back at the shoe section surrounded by a semicircle of bridesmaids, she interrupted the conversation about flip flops as politely as possible. Giving the harried salesgirl her best professional smile, she said, "Excuse me. Hi. Can you please go see the bride in fitting room eight? She wants to confirm that we're getting the dresses in red."

Naturally, this caused heads to snap up like striking snakes'. "Red?" Cyndi asked. "I thought we were getting this color." She indicated her own dress.

"We're not," Claire said, trying to keep her tone cheerfully neutral. "Tara likes the red."

"But—" Cyndi and Giselle both started. Angela was preoccupied with tugging on her sample to give herself space to breathe.

Claire interrupted and appealed to the salesgirl. "Come with me, please?"

The salesgirl nodded, looking almost pathetically grateful to have an elsewhere to be. "By the way," she said to Claire as they started down the corridor to the fitting rooms, "I really love the way your choker looks with that dress."

Claire had forgotten her leather choker; now it presented the first real ammunition she'd had all day. Letting her hand drift up to the choker like a beauty queen, she beamed at the clerk. "Thank you. Isn't it cute? We'll all be wearing them during the ceremony. I think it'll really set off the red—"

Claire never got to finish her sentence; footsteps stampeded down the corridor and squeals could be heard as Giselle, Angela and Cyndi pounced on her like furies. Giselle, who had been in the lead, seized Claire's arm rudely and spun her to face the rest of the group. The salesgirl beat a hasty retreat, but Claire was okay with that—it would give her more time to finalize things with Tara while the troublemaking bridesmaids were distracted.

Too bad she had to be the distraction.

"What did you say?" Giselle said, going so far as to give Claire a little shake. Claire's eyes widened in disbelief at the brazen action, but she reminded herself that she was in an orange satin dress and unarmed. That certainly didn't _look _dangerous, so any display of how she was not to be fucked with would have to be administered manually.

"What did you talk Tara into?" Cyndi demanded, as Angela turned down the hallway and called "_Mom_!"

Enough of this. Using her free hand, Claire snatched Giselle's hand off her arm. "I was just _kidding_, for Christ's sake," she said, and for good measure, bent the other redhead's hand back so that her well-manicured nails were pointing at herself. "Don't you _ever_ touch me like that again, understand?"

Giselle's mouth became a little _o_, but she didn't answer. Claire twisted, just a little, and this time was rewarded with a satisfying squeak of "_Okay_!"

Smiling her most charming smile, which Leon had once referred to as the Made-In-Heaven Special, Claire released Giselle's wrist. "Good girl."

Luckily, before anyone else could react, Brenda came striding down the corridor. "What's going on, girls?" she asked, and Claire frowned. "Girls", as if they were the cast of _The Facts of Life_ getting reprimanded by Mrs. Garrett. She still couldn't believe that this was a group of grown women behaving this way.

Giselle's eyes were wet and sulky; she stood rubbing her wrist, but kept silent. Claire watched her huddle against the wall, completely defused, and felt like slapping her anyway. Angela and Cyndi leaped to the front lines, forefingers pointed at Claire like pistols. "_She_ said—"

Claire was so over this. "It was a _joke_. Jesus, can't any of you take a _joke_?"

This was clearly a rhetorical question, but Cyndi looked poised to spit an answer anyway, so Claire was relieved when Brooke came trudging down the corridor, looking puzzled. "There's a guy up front-"

Giselle turned, looking suddenly weary. The mercurial changes of mood were getting to be too much for Claire. "Is it Peter?" Giselle asked airily. "I told him I'd text him when I needed to be picked up." Claire had only met Giselle's husband Peter a few times, while he trailed behind her at parties like an invisible string was tied between them. He always looked glum while he drank dry white wine and listened to Giselle gladhand, as though he'd be more comfortable drinking a beer and answering to "Pete".

Brooke lifted her chin to indicate Claire. "It's for her."

Claire's brows almost disappeared into her bangs; the bridesmaids parted for her and then immediately closed ranks to follow her as she headed to the front of the store.

As she should have guessed, Leon was waiting there, looking like a sight for sore eyes in dark jeans, a gray t-shirt and the leather jacket she'd given him for Christmas (he'd asked for one, to replace the ones that "monsters kept eating", as he put it). The sight of her always-delectable boyfriend was enough of a distraction that Claire only realized how awful the orange dress must look when that million-dollar smile broke out on Leon's face, the laughter he was swallowing evident in his twinkling hazel eyes.

But to his credit, all he said was, "Hi, angel wings. Ready to go to lunch? Of course, I'll have to go home and put on a tux..."

Relieved, Claire smiled at him, chastising herself for even worrying that he'd embarrass her in front of the Furies. Still, she tried to straitjacket her arms around herself as if she could hide the hideous dress. "I'm just about to change. It's just a sample," she added quickly, to emphasize the fact that she was not going to put this dress on ever again. "We're getting them in red."

Leon just smiled, taking her wrists and gently pushing her arms to her sides so he could see the dress. "You look sweet. And freshly squeezed, and not from concentrate." He used the hold on her wrists to draw her close, their noses brushing, and Claire knew her blush was clashing with the Sunkist orange dress as she carefully extracted herself from his grip. She was aching for a kiss, every sensory memory of his mouth on hers surfacing through the haze of her thoughts and erasing her unpleasant surroundings. Her pulse picked up, heartbeat pleading with her to let him have his way, but they had an audience and she refused to grandstand for them.

"Let me just go change and say goodbye to Tara," Claire said, giving his hands a squeeze. He gave her a patient smile and let her go, and Claire felt guilty for leaving him in the clutches of the other bridesmaids, but Leon had gotten through a village of possessed peasants, two chainsaw-wielding women in babushkas, and several other more dangerous things without her help. He'd be fine on his own for a few minutes.

Eager for the hello kiss she'd postponed, Claire hurried down the corridor to the fitting rooms as fast as layers of crinoline under a long skirt would allow. It seemed to take forever to escape the prison of satin and tulle, and she was seconds away from ripping it just to get out of it that much faster when she was able to extract her combat boots from the mess and wriggle back into her jeans. The give of her spandex top felt like heaven after the confining dress. Emerging from the fitting room, she all but shoved the crumpled monstrosity at the harried salesgirl, who looked like a prisoner of war. Claire didn't blame her for looking spent—she was probably as eager to get them out of the shop as Claire herself was to leave.

While every nerve ending was screaming at her to race out to the front of the store and throw herself into Leon's arms, friendship demanded that she check in with Tara before leaving. Tara, thankfully, looked to be doing much better; she had her head bent over a clipboard that presumably contained the order. "How are you feeling?" Claire asked.

Tara smiled, and while evidence of her earlier meltdown was still apparent on her slightly swollen face, it was a happy smile. "Much better. Thanks so much for your help."

"What are friends for?" Claire said, and even as she said it, she hoped Tara didn't expect her to stick around and do anything else. If there was ever a time for Tara to learn to stand on her own two feet, this would have been a great one. "Listen, do you need me for anything else, because if not, I think I'll—"

"Ohmigod! Did you have something else to do?" Tara exclaimed with wide eyes, and Claire inwardly cursed herself for her choice of words. It was so like Tara to blame herself and assume she'd put Claire out with her request.

"No! No, it's just, my boyfriend's actually here to take me to lunch and—" Claire felt a blush flood her face and wished she'd stuck with her original plan to just escape. Tara's eyes lit up.

"Oh, good! I'll walk out front with you," she said cheerfully, and then her look became sly. "I was wondering when you were going to introduce me to Double-Oh-Sexy." She waggled her dark eyebrows suggestively.

Claire flashed her the Made-In-Heaven Special. "If you call him that—_ever_—your fiance will never find your remains."

Tara's smile dissolved from playfulness into reality. "I wouldn't do you like that. Come on, let's go say hello. Where is he?"

Claire flicked her head back towards the front of the store. "I left him to the tender mercies of your bridal party."

Tara giggled. "Then we'd better go save him. Allow me, Miss Redfield," she said, offering Claire her arm in an overly courtly gesture. Claire smiled and took the offered arm, letting Tara stroll her up to the front of the store where Leon remained rock steady among the ranks of the enemy. She was fiercely proud of how well Tara cut through the idle chitchat to become belle of the ball once again, offering Leon her hand.

"And you must be Claire's mystery man," she said warmly.

Claire nudged Tara gently, smiling stiffly as she tried unsuccessfully not to blush. "He's his own man, Ta."

Tara laughed as Leon shook her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Tara McTiernan. Well, soon to be Tara Gennaro." She smiled.

"Leon Kennedy. Soon to be taking Claire to lunch," he said, and Tara giggled. "Congratulations," he added.

"Thank you." Tara beamed. "We'll see you again at the wedding, right?"

Leon smiled beatifically. "It'd be a crime to let a beautiful lady go unescorted," he said, turning to Claire. "Ready to go, angel wings?"

Claire could feel about four stares burning holes in the cutout back of her shirt as she followed Leon past the counter. As soon as his back was turned, Tara pointed and mouthed _He's cute_! as if it were ten years ago and they were in high school. Claire just smiled and waved an absent goodbye, thrilled to be getting out into fresh air and friendlier skies.

"How do you always show up when I need you?" Claire said gratefully, slipping her hand into Leon's and giving it a squeeze. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"I'm your man," he said simply, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "I always know when you need me." His hazel eyes twinkled. "Although the note you left under my coffee mug helped."

Claire blushed. "Sorry if the girl talk embarrassed you."

Leon shrugged, the fluid movement of his strong shoulders making Claire wish they were home so she could sink her nails into them. "I happen to like being your man." Tightening his fingers around hers, he asked, "How about I drive and we'll come back for your bike later?"

"Sounds good," she said, looking wistfully at his car, which was parked like a sexual fantasy in a row of soccer-mom vans and sport utility vehicles. "Where should we go?"

She'd meant for lunch, but she had a feeling Leon was thinking in much broader terms when he answered, "Anywhere you want," with a smile that bled up to his eyes.

Normally Claire considered herself a feminist. She felt silly waiting for her boyfriend to struggle awkwardly to push her chair back in after he'd pulled it out for her and she hated waiting for guys to get doors for her when she was perfectly capable of opening her own damn door. But she never minded that Leon always made it around the car first to open the passenger's side door for her, since he always repaid her for indulging him. Today, he opened the door but blocked her entry, pulling her to him for the kiss they'd never gotten to in the bridal shop. Claire's fingers slid up his chest, tightened on his shirt as he caught her lower lip between his, giving her the barest press of teeth as he tugged her mouth open for his tongue. She heard her own pleased purr as his embrace constricted, the ferocity of the subtext—_mine_—thrilling her in a way she hadn't wanted to admit to in front of Tara.

But here, in his arms, it was safe. _She_ was safe.

She hadn't realized her eyes had closed until she heard his voice beyond the darkness of her lowered lids. "I'm your man," he reminded her, his nose brushing hers, breath warm on her skin. It was not a question, and it was spoken in the sinful whisper he reserved for their most intimate conversations.

"You're my man," she agreed, opening her eyes and locking her hazy gaze on his as they broke apart, closing the distance briefly as she reached to brush her lips against his one more time. "Thanks for saving me."

His smile was appreciative, and she knew she'd done the right thing. "Always," he promised, then let her go and circled around to the driver's side. As soon as he'd put the car in gear, their hands automatically joined over the gearshift, and for the first time that day, Claire gave serious thought to the phrase _plus one_.

She smiled.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

_Bachelorettes, why do we do this to our bachelorettes_? I swear, the minute someone gets a ring on her finger the insanity spreads like a virus.

What's going to be nice is that when I get married, I don't want a bridal shower—I have a lovely home and everything I need, and I don't want to sit and open gifts for hours, boring everyone. I don't want bridesmaids—my sisters will stand up for me, and they can wear whatever they want. And I want every single one of these girls who've put me through this to come to my wedding and…

…have a wonderful time.

I want them to eat, drink, and be merry, and my gift to them will be to never never put them through what I've found so distasteful. I want my very own wedding to be what I feel all weddings should be—a big big party. No work, no stress, just fun. And I'll feel happy about that. The best revenge won't be to pur them through the wringer. Rather, it'll be to do it right, do it nicely—do it the way I feel it should be done.

Last time pays for all, and I can live with that. *smiles*


End file.
